Dr. Cassandra Ruger turned as her partner came through the door. Her springy black hair stuck out at odd angles from her braid, except for the sweaty strands plastered to her forehead and neck. Her usually light brown skin had a gray cast to it. Even her eyes—always so ready to sparkle with mirth—looked weary.
Screams echoed underneath the sand-scoured habitat dome of Dremiks. Their rising pitch and intensity promised a coming storm that the protective structure could not abate.
The chalky, blue-gray soil of the planet carried on the wind. Not yet the nightly gale, the dust-laden drafts created visible eddies around the massive dome.
There are days (many, many days) when it feels like 90% of this writing gig consists of begging.
“Please review”
“Please join my newsletter”
“Please tell your friends!”
“Please follow me on Social media.”
It’s exhausting.
Books don’t–as much as we may wish they did–spring forth from our brains onto perfectly printed pages or automatically downloaded to an e-reader. They are labors of love (and frustration). They’re also a group effort.
The characters in this book go through some things. While that is, sadly, their lot in life– being characters in my book–it is unfortunately also true that some readers will have experienced similar traumas. I want everyone who reads this tale to find some measure of enjoyment out of it; I also know that some subjects are just too upsetting and ruin our individual attachment to a book.
I didn’t spend the early pandemic months of 2020 making sourdough bread, learning a new language, or writing a novel. We’d move to Texas a measly 9 months prior. We were still trying to settle in, considering if we wanted to buy a home, and figuring out future plans. My sons–who I homeschool–were completing their 11th and 8th grade years. I was plenty busy.
